


Stomach Ache

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6250390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has a stomach ache. He bought biscuits, the nice sort with lots of chocolate, but he doesn't want to eat them. Athos will help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stomach Ache

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MDJensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/gifts).



> Pretty much just fluff with Porthos not feeling well and him and Athos doing lots and lots of cuddling.

There's a sudden bright flood of golden sunlight, at about four o'clock. It's Sunday, so they're still in their pyjamas (Athos has proper pyjamas, Porthos is wearing a well-worn pair of pants and a threadbare wife beater). They both look up from their books and then smile at each other.

 

“We should go outside,” Athos says, feeling a bit dubious about it. “Make the most of the sun.”

 

“We could do that, or we could not move and stay here and enjoy the sun from right on this sofa,” Porthos says, yawning and stretching, wrapping his arm around Athos and resting his head on Athos's shoulder, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes.

 

“Alright,” Athos says, convinced, allowing puppy dog eyes (Porthos's are lethal and banned) due to illness.

 

Porthos smiles, and Athos kisses him, an impulse he doesn't bother to try and control. Porthos giggles, wrapping his other arm around Athos and throwing a leg over Athos's lap, belly pressing soft against Athos.

 

“Don't use me as a cushion,” Athos says.

 

“Why? Everyone is always using _me_ as a cushion. I thought I'd try it out.”

 

“But I'm all bony.”

 

Porthos shrugs, seemingly quite content where he is, half in Athos's lap, sprawled over him. Athos pats his hair. Usually he'll curl up against Porthos, but Porthos hasn't been feeling great today, so Athos had held himself in check.

 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asks, kissing Porthos again.

 

“Mph. I bought those nice biscuits, all covered in chocolate, and I don't even want to eat any.”

 

“Not well, then,” Athos says. “Oh, those Fox's ones? The shortbread rounds where they don't stint on the chocolate?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Athos calculates, then settles, humming. He strokes Porthos's hair, scritches his scalp, and Porthos sighs. Athos turns back to the front of his book and reads aloud. It's Terry Pratchett, so Athos doesn't mind reading it twice, and Porthos likes it. Porthos sighs again, eyes falling shut on a slow, heavy blink. Athos smiles and keeps reading, softening his voice until it's soothing, hypnotic.

 

“Hang on,” Porthos says, pulling away and sitting up. “No. You're tryin' to make me go to sleep so you can go nick my biscuits!”

 

Athos tries to look completely innocent, but he should have gone for deadpan- he's never been good at innocent. He widens his eyes, but he's pretty sure that just makes it worse. Porthos crosses his arms and settles right at the other end of the sofa, huffing, glaring. He pulls his own book towards him and pointedly reads, ignoring Athos. Athos watches, amused until Porthos winces and tucks his legs up, huddling against the arm rest.

 

“C'mere,” Athos says, holding out his arm. Porthos sends him a wounded glare. “Come on. I promise not to steal your biscuits.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Porthos comes, settling against Athos's side again. Athos checks him for fever, then pulls him into a hug. They shift about until Athos's back is to the arm rest, Porthos between his legs. Porthos wraps himself around Athos's thigh, cuddling in.

 

“Read it to me?” Porthos says, tapping Athos's book.

 

“Do you want me to read from yours?” Athos offers, picking up what Porthos has been reading. He raises his eyebrows. It's called 'the lipstick diaries' and has sparkly bits on the cover. “On second thoughts, let's stick to Feet of Clay.”

 

“It's got lesbians in it, Samara lent it to me,” Porthos says. “Sun's going away again.”

 

“Want to go for a walk? Fresh air might help.”

 

“Since when did fresh air make a mite of difference to a stomach ache?”

 

“Well, Anne used to say- oh. Right.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, she used to say exercise helped, but she was talking about menstrual cramps.”

 

Porthos sniggers, shifting to press against Athos's stomach instead of his thigh. Athos pats his hair.

 

“Stop doin' that, what are you doin' to my hair?”

 

“It's soft,” Athos says.

 

“Leave off. I don't like it.”

 

Athos strokes his cheek instead, which makes Porthos smile. That's clearly fine. As is reading aloud. Porthos likes to be read to, Athos knows. He says it reminds him of home, of family. Athos has met Porthos's family- they're big, and loud, and a little bit nutty. They hug and cuddle and shout and tell each other they love each other all the time.

 

Athos particularly likes Porthos's sister, Samara. She hits Porthos over the head and tells him he's wrong and gets cross when he forgets about women and lesbians and trans people. Porthos says he doesn't actually forget about those, but Samara doesn't really care, she just likes berating him, so it has no effect.

 

“Did Samara read to you, when you were children?” Athos asks, pausing in his reading.

 

“No, why? Did Thomas read to you?”

 

“No. No one read to us. It wasn't a thing. I didn't know it was a thing until it happened at school. I didn't much like it, I was used to reading to myself, which was much faster, and I didn't like that we had to stop in the middle.”

 

“Of course you didn't. My Mum read to me, my birth Mum. Before she died. Then, Dad would read with all the voices and get everyone excited and laughing. Mama would come up afterwards and sit in the hall, all our bedroom lights off, and we've have to stay still and quiet while she read in that soft monotone you tried on me, until we were asleep. Or mostly asleep at least, me and Sammy shared so we'd sometimes stay awake to whisper.”

 

Athos carries on reading, digesting the new information. He likes learning new things about Porthos. Porthos's Dad, captain Treville, is how Athos met Porthos. He can't imagine his DCI reading stories, he's usually just grouchy at work. He's seen Treville with Porthos once or twice, though, when Porthos wasn't feeling well, or was hurt, or upset, and he can almost see it, when he thinks about that.

 

Porthos, Athos realises, has fallen asleep. Athos slips out from under him, sneaks into the kitchen, and eats all his biscuits.

 

Porthos wakes up at seven, in time to make a face at the pasta Athos is eating, stumble to the bathroom to shower, and fall back into bed. Athos frowns when Porthos stays in bed for five minutes before stumbling back to the bathroom and staying there for a long time. Athos washes his bowl and goes to scout it out. Porthos is sitting against the bath, eyes half closed, looking pale.

 

“What's up?” Athos asks, leaning in the doorway. “I can get you a bowl if you're feeling nauseated.”

 

“Dunno. Felt sick all of a sudden, I thought I was gonna puke there and then, but it passed,” Porthos says, heaving himself up to his feet. Athos pulls him by the pants waistband and rubs his stomach, then hugs him. “Mm. You're getting good at these.”

 

“I'm practising.”

 

“For a younger, better model?”

 

“For you.”

 

“ _With_ a younger, better model?”

 

“With you.”

 

Porthos goes heavy and Athos leads him back to the bedroom so he can lie down. Porthos curls up, tugging the duvet over him. Athos hesitates, then climbs on too, sitting against the headboard. He picks up the other book he's reading, War and Peace, and settles in. He only gets tens minutes before Porthos sits up, frowning.

 

“That bowl might be a good idea, actually,” Porthos says.

 

Athos goes to get one, wondering if using a cooking bowl for puke is unhygenic. It's what they always did at home, though, so he decides it'll be okay. Porthos curls around it, but doesn't throw up. He does stare for a while, eyes wide open, and it's a bit disconcerting. Then he closes his eyes again, which is much better. Athos pats his cheek and settles in.

 

Porthos dozes, and Athos gets a good bit of reading in. The blinds are shut, so he can't tell from here if the sun's still shining or not, but he has a feeling that the evening is a nice one. He can hear a bird singing, and the blinds don't shut out everything. It's a nice evening to sit quietly and read during. Porthos sits up suddenly, sending the bowl clattering to the floor. Porthos slides after it, sitting cross legged against the bed, clutching the bowl. He retches, but doesn't vomit.

 

“Might help to throw up,” Athos says.

 

“Maybe. I don't really feel sick. Not really.”

 

Athos points to the bowl, and Porthos retches again.

 

“Really,” Porthos says, panting. “I don't feel that sick, just faintly nauseated. Enough to feel iffy, on the edge of throwing up, but not quite there. No, it's passed. See?”

 

“Sure,” Athos says.

 

Porthos climbs back into bed, using Athos as a pillow again, burrowing in under his arm, head on Athos's stomach. Athos looks down at him, waiting for him to settle before draping his own arm over Porthos's shoulder, balancing his book on Porthos's head. Porthos makes a grumpy noise, so Athos moves it. Porthos turns his face up to Athos and pouts.

 

“Nice,” Athos says, pressing his thumb to Porthos's sticking-out lip.

 

“Not a book rest.”

 

“I'm not a pillow, and yet...”

 

“Yeah, but you're versatile. I'm a stick in the mud, me. Cog in the wheel. Treading the same trench.”

 

Athos presses his thumb to silence Porthos, but it just makes him smile against Athos's hand. Then he sighs.

 

“Snuggle me?” Porthos says, giving Athos a truly pathetic look.

 

Athos puts War and Peace aside, getting his ipad instead. He puts radio four on quietly and then nudges Porthos off him. He lies down and tangles them together, letting Porthos cuddle him like a life-size teddy bear.

 

“I hope you're feeling better tomorrow,” Athos says.

 

“Me too, I'm working,” Porthos says.

 

“Yeah. We're going to Aramis's in the evening, too, remember? He's going to cook that fish thing you like, and we're going to play snakes and ladders, and maybe cards, in the big kitchen, with the Aga and all the food. They always have lots of food.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sadly. “I hope I feel better by then. Maybe we can take the biscuits.”

 

Athos recognises the sly note in Porthos's voice. He's known Porthos far too long for anyone's peace of mind. He carefully, carefully controls his reaction and stays blank, not bothering to go for innocent this time. Nothing to be innocent of, he can hear no accusation in Porthos's voice at all, no question there, nothing. Nope.

 

“You ate them!” Porthos says, pulling himself out of the snuggle. “You did, I know you did! Oh my God, you ate all of them, didn't you? There were two packets.”

 

“Two?” Athos says.

 

“No. Just one. One packet! Damn it. You could leave me some, Ath, you could.”

 

“I didn't eat anything,” Athos says.

 

Porthos gives him a wounded look and puts his back to Athos. Athos plasters himself over it and snuggles Porthos, getting his legs around him too, pressing kisses to Porthos's neck until Porthos turns back over.

 

“I hate you,” Porthos mumbles.

 

“Okay,” Athos says, closing his eyes, Porthos big and warm and soft and so very Porthos, so very very Porthos. “I love you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Athos smiles, waiting. He doesn't have to wait long to get a grudging 'love you too', and a kiss. Porthos dozes off after that and Athos is left to listen to the Now Show on his own. Porthos falls asleep without throwing up. Athos reads for a bit, then he too dozes off without eating dinner. He sleeps well, but after going to bed so early he wakes up at five and can't get back to sleep.

 

He lies around for half an hour, then showers, then goes for a run, taking the long route- around the park, up the hill and around the bigger park. It's about five or six miles all told, and takes him an hour. He's a bit grouchy about that, he used to be able to do the same distance fifteen minutes quicker. He has a quick shower and sprawls on the bed, turning his head to watch Porthos sleeping. Porthos isn't sleeping, he's giving Athos an amused look. Porthos untangles his hand in a slow, ungainly move and lets it fall on Athos's bare arse.

 

“Mornin',” Porthos says.

 

“It took me an hour to do your run.”

 

“Not bad. Want to come with me in future?”

 

“No. I like sleeping in. How are you feeling? How's your stomach?”

 

“Dunno. Woke up when you jumped on the bed.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Athos wriggles under the duvet and into Porthos's arms, enjoying Porthos jiggling when he laughs. Athos wriggles some more until he's between Porthos's thighs. His favourite place. He presses his face into Porthos's chest.

 

“You working?” Porthos asks.

 

“Nah. Not till later. Just writing from home today. Do you want breakfast? You're not in till later, I could make you something proper.”

 

“Mmm, don't, I want it. I love your proper breakfasts, I want food.”

 

“Still not feeling well?”

 

“My stomach just hurts.”

 

“Maybe you have an appendicitis.”

 

“Don't have an appendix.”

 

“Maybe it grew back,” Athos says, squirming down the bed and pushing Porthos's wife beater up to examine his stomach.

 

Porthos has a lovely stomach. It's great for cuddling, but it's also just soft and big and warm and lovely. Athos presses a kiss to the little rise of it and presses a hand over where the appendix is, as if he can feel it. Porthos laughs softly, tangling a hand in Athos's hair, tugging him back up. Athos settles between Porthos's legs again, resting against his stomach. Porthos's eyes slide shut, so Athos rubs his back and kisses his forehead.

 

“You feel a bit warm,” Athos says, kissing again.

 

“Just woke up, remember, love. I've been snuggling down in all these blankets and pillows.”

 

“Leave my blankets and pillows alone. Do you want me to call you in sick, change plans with Aramis, or do you want to be pig headed and plough on through?”

 

“Call me in. You're home today, you said?”

 

“Yes. I'll be in. You want to curl up in the office? Bring a blanket up? I could make you a hot water bottle. Maybe some ginger and honey?”

 

“Sounds nice.”

 

“Good. I'm getting up now, I'm gonna have breakfast and go down the shop for more milk and the paper, then I'll ring your boss. I'll come get you when I'm ready to work, hm?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Athos kisses Porthos's forehead again and shifts so Porthos is resting against him. He holds Porthos for about fifteen minutes, soothing him. He knows Porthos doesn't like feeling ill, knows waking up feeling bad makes Porthos unhappy. Not that anyone likes feeling bad. Athos can make it better for Porthos, though, which is the difference, really.

 

Porthos spends most of the day napping with Athos, waking up now and then for a bit, watching Doctor Who with headphones. He brings the bowl with him, but never throws up. When Athos stops work for lunch and Porthos is sleeping, he checks Porthos's temperature with the ear thermometer. He tries to be sneaky about it, and he manages not to wake Porthos, though Porthos does mutter something about ear-wigs.

 

“I'm so un-sleepy,” Porthos says, yawning.

 

He's got up finally, changed his underwear for pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and is wrapped in a blanket at the kitchen table. Athos sets a mug of broth in front of him, helping himself to a proper serving with meat and nice bits in it, with bread and salad.

 

“I bet you fall asleep within the next hour or two,” Athos says.

 

“Not taking that. I bet you have eaten at least one of the packets of biscuits.”

 

Athos keeps quiet the rest of dinner. Porthos keeps on with the yawning. He eats half the soup, then pushes it away and pillows his head on his arm on the table, holding his belly. Athos feels a sharp pang of worry. He wants to check Porthos for fever again. Maybe his appendix really has grown back.

 

“I'm fine, Ath, just… tired. Pain is tiring,” Porthos says, turning his head to look at Athos.

 

Athos looks back, and they're still for a moment. Athos searches Porthos's eyes for reassurance. He finds pain there, and tiredness, and there's not enough colour in his cheeks, but he doesn't look as if he's dying, or covering up some deeper ailment. Athos goes back to his soup. He picks the bits of chicken out and eats them quietly, mulling it over.

 

“Alright,” he says, when he's done eating, getting up to do the dishes. “Alright. Go on and lie down, if you like, I won't worry.”

 

“No, I'm keeping watch. You're gonna eat my biscuits.”

 

“I won't.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“I promise.”

 

Porthos seems to be under the impression that Athos's word is good, because he lumbers up off to bed. Athos watches him go, waits until Porthos has had time to fall asleep, then eats his biscuits. He watches TV and eats all the biscuits and then eats most of the grapes, then has another shower and goes to bed. Porthos grumbles and wakes up enough to give Athos a sleepy kiss and snuggle up.

 

Porthos is better the next day. They pass one another as Porthos is getting back from a run and Athos is getting up. Porthos kisses him, then kisses him again when Athos is eating breakfast and Porthos is leaving the house. Athos spends the afternoon at the bookshop. He stops off at Tesco on the way home. Porthos is sitting at the table, scowling, arms crossed. His big shoulders and arms and stomach bulge threateningly. Athos grins.

 

“You ate two packets. You could'a left me one biscuit,” Porthos says.

 

Athos grins wider and tips the Tesco bag out on the table. It's full of packets of biscuits. Porthos laughs, tugging Athos into a hug, pressing into Athos's stomach.

 

“I told you on Sunday,” Athos says, pressing a kiss to the top of Porthos's head. “I love you. I know what that means.”

 

“Means you get to eat all my biscuits without me setting a trap for you. I, ah, wouldn't go in the bathroom till I dismantle something there, though.”

 

Athos goes to the bathroom and pushes the door open, curious. A bowl of jelly tips onto the floor in front of him with a wet splat. Porthos comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Athos, chin on his shoulder.

 

“Aw, Ath. Now I have to clear up,” Porthos says.

 

“Serves you right.”

 

“I love you, you know that?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

 

 


End file.
